


moon go down, do it again

by seimaisin



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-22
Updated: 2009-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, set in a universe based on J.D. Robb's <i>In Death</i> series.  The year is 2059, and while culture has changed quite a bit, many things - like love and death - stay exactly the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	moon go down, do it again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://tuesdaysgone.livejournal.com/profile)[**tuesdaysgone**](http://tuesdaysgone.livejournal.com/) for reading it and assuring me it doesn't suck. :) Title courtesy of Alkaline Trio.

The party took place in a ballroom at one of New York's most exclusive hotels - a hotel Pete owned, Patrick was pretty sure - but if he hadn't walked through the hotel lobby just a half hour earlier, Patrick wouldn't have been able to tell that he wasn't standing in the middle of an old European castle. The walls had been transformed to some kind of stone; fake, he assumed, but he was completely curious about how it had been done. He'd have to ask Pete later. From the ceilings hung large crystal chandeliers that he knew were the authentic item, as he'd overheard Victoria, Pete's assistant, complaining about their cost. It was an old, comfortable argument - Victoria bothered Pete about how much money he spent, and Pete spent the money anyway. It wasn't like he was ever going to go broke, not even buying ten antique chandeliers for a one-night event. Hell, he could buy ten different hotels for one night, and still not see any noticeable difference. Patrick hadn't yet been with Pete a year, so he still had trouble wrapping his brain around the concept.

The wait staff wore costumes befitting Medieval servants - or was it Renaissance? Patrick never had studied that much history. Whatever time period it was, the women wore corsets that prominently displayed their breasts, while the men were dressed in tights and frilly jackets. Patrick didn't envy them at all. He was uncomfortable enough, he thought, using a finger to loosen the tie around his neck. He couldn't say his suit was uncomfortable; Pete had bought it, so it was probably tailored specifically to Patrick's body. Patrick didn't remember ever standing still for measurements, but still, every piece of clothing he pulled out of his closet fit perfectly. He'd asked about it once, but Pete just grinned evilly and talked about how much of Patrick's body he was intimately familiar with. "Yes," Patrick responded, "but I'm pretty sure sucking my dick doesn't actually measure the inches around my hips."

"I'm good with numbers," Pete responded. He then distracted Patrick by demonstrating his technique. Patrick forgot to ask him about numbers after that.

A corseted server tapped Patrick on the shoulder. He took the glass of champagne she offered and scanned the room. People mingled all around him; some of them looked at him, but they seemed to be more interested in gossiping about him than actually speaking to him. That was all right, Patrick though. Making small talk with rich people wasn't one of his talents. What could he say? _"Yes, I'm Pete Wentz's cop. No, I'm not glamorous. I catch murderers for a living, so I don't really need to be able to identify the nuances of good wine in my day-to-day life."_ Usually, at these things, Patrick preferred to stick close to Pete and half-listen to his conversations. But, this time, Pete had abandoned him to discuss the night's ceremonies with the event planner. Pete was receiving an award from the city tonight, Patrick knew, but for what he didn't know.

Not far away from Pete, in another clump of well-dressed people, Patrick spotted Greta Salpeter. The young doctor spared him a wink and a small wave when she noticed him, but made no move to leave the conversation. That was all right - Greta had recently opened a small clinic that provided free medical care to underprivileged families, and all of her operating costs came from donations from people like these. Pete had provided her with enough money to keep her running for quite some time, but Patrick understood the politics of the wealthy enough to know that a variety of fingers in her pie would keep Greta in business for much longer. A party like this wasn't a night out for her - it was an extension of business hours.

Patrick twitched. He was useless here. Pete didn't need him, not in this crowd. The only thing Patrick did for Pete, socially speaking, was give him more of a reputation for being odd. Not that Pete needed any more help with that. Rich and eccentric and utterly, completely ruthless - that was Pete Wentz, in a nutshell. To anyone who didn't know him, that is. To Patrick, he was ... indescribable. As necessary as breathing. How had that happened? Patrick had been a cop for a long time, but not even he could puzzle out that mystery.

A hand landed on Patrick's shoulder. "It's the man of the hour!"

Patrick felt a smile stretch across his face when he recognized Brendon's voice. He turned around to face him. "Isn't Pete the man of the hour? He's the one getting an award."

Brendon was dressed in a riot of colors - he wore a skin-tight long sleeved shirt made of some sort of iridescent material that shimmered every time he moved, coupled with a pair of harem pants that seemed to boast filmy swatches of every color of the rainbow. His dark hair shone with streaks of metallic blue, and what appeared to be a tiny moving bird hung from his left ear. "It's a droid!" he exclaimed when he saw Patrick studying it. "Robotic jewelry. Jon knows this guy who makes them. Isn't it fantastic?"

"It's creepy," Patrick said, watching as the bird walked up and down an even tinier perch, opening and shutting its silver beak as if calling out.

"It's not like a pet droid," Jon assured him. "It's just a little machine, programmed to make lifelike movements." Jon, for his part, was wearing a much tamer Eastern-inspired costume, a loose tunic and pants made of blue material that matched the streaks in Brendon's hair. He was growing a beard, Patrick noted; the whole effect made him look like he should be sitting in lotus position on a mountain somewhere.

"It's still creepy," Patrick repeated.

"Anyway," Brendon dismissed him, "you're totally the topic of conversation around here. I've passed three different people who were talking about the Hive killer, how you saved that girl. You're a hero, Patrick."

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. "Not really. Four other women died before I managed to get him."

"But you got him. He didn't kill anyone else, and also, you looked smoking hot on when Gabe interviewed you on his show. That's what the woman over in the corner said," Brendon added, poking Patrick in the arm.

Patrick saw an opening to change the conversation. "Hey, didn't I hear that you're going on Gabe's show next week?"

Brendon nodded. The bird on his ear flapped its tiny robotic wings with the motion. "My new album comes out the first week of April. Gabe likes ratings, I like publicity, it's a match made in heaven."

Patrick grinned at him. How far Brendon had come, he thought, from the skinny, nearly starving boy Patrick had caught picking pockets while busking on the streets of Greenwich Village. Now, with a lot of talent and a little backing from Pete, he was the biggest pop star in the entire world. "Never thought either one of us would end up at one of these parties, I have to admit," he said aloud.

Brendon slung an arm around Patrick's shoulder. "We deserve it. Because we're just that awesome."

Across the room, Patrick heard someone call Pete's name. He looked up to see a gorgeous redheaded woman in an elegant black evening gown stretching her arms out to accept a hug from Pete. Behind her, an older gentleman in a tuxedo scowled. Patrick recognized him before he recognized her. Brendon did, too. "Reverend Joe Simpson, king of the religious universe."

"At least, as far as the gossip columnists are concerned," Jon added.

The redhead, Patrick now recognized, was Reverend Simpson's youngest daughter, Ashlee. He was sure that, if he looked hard enough, he'd see the Reverend's other daughter making the rounds somewhere at the party. The trio were the face of evangelism to the public, thanks to the Reverend's weekly vid show, which was part worship service and part concert spectacle. The Reverend delivered bombastic sermons, Jessica sang hymns that later turned into best-selling singles, and Ashlee made fervent pleas for donations to whichever charity they supported that week. Patrick remembered watching their show more often than he, a non-believer, cared to, back when he spent too many hours in the bullpen at Cop Central. The former commander of their unit had been a man of the faith, and their vid screens were turned to the Simpson Worship Hour at ten o'clock every Sunday morning, murder investigations be damned.

Patrick shouldn't be surprised that Pete knew the Simpsons - Pete knew everybody. He was surprised, however, at the familiar way Ashlee pressed her cheek to Pete's, by the way Pete rubbed an affectionate hand over her hip. They both ignored her father's glare; Ashlee bent her head close to Pete's and spoke. He gave her a brilliant smile, spoke a few words back, and then looked around the room. When he saw Patrick, he started to gesture, but then changed his mind. Instead, he offered his arm to Ashlee. She accepted it, giggling, and they began to glide across the room. The crowd parted for them, everyone whispering and pointing in their direction.

"Ooooh, that's interesting," Brendon said.

"You know," Jon said, tugging Brendon away from Patrick, "I think that's our cue to go mingle elsewhere."

"But I want to meet Ashlee!"

"Brendon."

"Fine." Brendon leaned over and brushed a light kiss against Patrick's cheek. "I'll bring a copy of the new album over to you as soon as I have one. Try not to work too hard, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Patrick said, paying less attention to Brendon and more to the spectacle heading in his direction.

Pete and Ashlee stopped in front of Patrick. The rest of the room pretended not to notice them, but Patrick could feel dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him. To his surprise, Ashlee immediately disengaged from Pete's arm and grasped Patrick by the arms. "Patrick. It's so nice to finally meet you!"

She pulled him into a hug. It took him a split second to respond. "Um, you too?"

She laughed as she released him. "It's okay, I know you probably don't know anything about me. I know Pete." She poked Pete in the arm. "Asshole."

Pete just grinned. "I am what I am, and that's all that I am."

It sounded like a quote, one Patrick didn't quite get, but Ashlee burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, god, how long has it been since I've heard that?"

"You run with a boring crowd these days."

"Don't I know it," she answered softly, rolling her eyes. She turned back to Patrick. "I am really happy to meet you, you know. I don't get to talk to Pete very often these days, but when I do, you're all he talks about."

"Ah," was Patrick's only response. He looked over at Pete, who just looked smug. "Should I be denying anything? Because I know what kind of spectacular lies you can tell."

Pete flipped him off. Ashlee giggled again. "If he's lying, it's only to your advantage, trust me."

"So, how did you two meet?" Patrick asked.

Ashlee looked at Pete, who shrugged. "It's a long story," she said, after a long pause. "And not mine to tell."

"It's your story as much as mine. More, in some ways," Pete said.

"I don't have any stories, remember?" Ashlee's smile turned wistful, and she reached up to trace a small pattern on Pete's cheek. "I'm just the reverend's daughter, boring as can be. No adventures here."

"I know the truth," Pete said seriously. He leaned over and brushed a kiss to her temple.

Patrick noticed the crowd moving behind them. Reverend Simpson appeared, looking agitated. Pete glanced over Ashlee's shoulder and noticed him. "Your dad's pissed," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know." She sighed. "I should go. Business tonight, not so much pleasure." She grasped Pete's hand. "Dinner soon?"

She looked at Patrick when she said it. He noticed that her grip on Pete's hand was hard enough to create white lines across Pete's skin. Pete didn't respond, so Patrick nodded slowly. "I think I want to hear the stories you don't have," he said. He was rewarded by a sweet smile from Ashlee.

She let go of Pete's hand. "I'll see you guys soon."

When she was gone, Patrick looked at Pete. Pete shrugged again, a small smile on his face. "My past."

Patrick knew about Pete's past. In some ways, Pete's past was frighteningly similar to his - they'd both grown up poor, on the wrong side of Chicago, during the messy cleanup years after the Urban Wars. But, where Patrick's childhood had driven him to the law for comfort, Pete's had led him on a completely opposite path for a long time. Patrick was only now coming to terms with the fact that the love of his life was a criminal - former criminal, he amended, with many friends who accompanied him on all his paths, legal and otherwise. "Ashlee Simpson?" Patrick said, surprised. "She ...?"

Pete nodded. "Like she said, long story." He held out his arm to Patrick. "Come on, we should go find our table."

Patrick looked at Pete's arm doubtfully. "I'm not incapable of finding my own way, you know."

Pete fluttered his eyelashes in Patrick's direction. When Patrick finally held out his hand, Pete quickly reached over and grabbed him. He brought Patrick's hand to his mouth and kissed it. Patrick felt his cheeks flame red, and saw several people gaping at them out of the corner of his eye. "You're a moron," Patrick muttered.

"Yeah, but I'm your moron," Pete reminded him. He tucked Patrick's hand underneath his arm. Patrick allowed himself to be led in the direction of the stage. He forced himself to ignore the whispers that followed them around the room.

***

Pete heard the clatter of something hitting the bedside table as he pulled his tie free from his shirt. The shushing sound of a door told him that Patrick had already retreated to the office. When he turned around, he saw Patrick's badge and police-issue stunner next to the bed. Once upon a time, Pete told himself, he wouldn't have found those items charming; their appearance in his house would have meant that something had gone very, very wrong for him. Not that long ago, though it felt like a lifetime. It was, though; life before Patrick was only a distant memory, one he was happy to wave goodbye to in the rear view mirror.

He tossed his tie and suit jacket on the bed before heading into the office. Patrick had already divested himself of his own tie and jacket; his shirt tails were untucked, and the shirt somehow wrinkled enough that, had he not seen Patrick at the party just an hour ago, Pete wouldn't have been believed it had been laundered in weeks. "How do you do that?" Pete wondered out loud.

"Huh?" Patrick didn't look up; he was studying his computer with an intensity that meant he was avoiding something. Avoiding Pete, probably, though Pete had no idea what that was about.

Pete fingered Patrick's shirt. "It looks like you slept in this thing."

"I did. Those speeches were seriously boring." Finally, Patrick glanced up. "Did they really give you an award for street signs?"

Pete shrugged. "One of my companies manufactures the signs that warn drivers ... yeah, you don't care, I got an award for street signs." Patrick was looking back at the computer screen, so Pete stood behind him and pressed his palms flat to Patrick's chest. He felt warm. Patrick was always warm; hot, soft skin that could mold to Pete's like they were created to fit together. Maybe they were. Pete was almost tempted to believe in a higher authority just so he could ask the question.

He felt Patrick breathe underneath his hands, a long, deep breath that vibrated up through Pete's forearms. Pete glanced at the computer screen - he saw a woman's photo, young and vibrant, posing with some kind of sports trophy. She was dead now, Pete assumed. Someone had stolen that vibrant life, and it was Patrick's job to make sure that person paid the price. Pete was on the verge of asking - who was she? what had she lost? what did Patrick need him to do to help loose the tension that strung across Patrick's shoulders? - when Patrick inhaled and spoke. "So, you and Reverend Simpson's daughter, huh?"

Pete nearly laughed. Nearly. He'd developed slightly better survival skills than that. "Is that what your problem is?"

"Fuck off," Patrick muttered, without heat. He continued to stare at the girl on the screen. "How the hell did that happen, anyway?"

Pete leaned down and wound an arm around Patrick's throat. Patrick made a noise of protest, but Pete hooked his chin on Patrick's shoulder and inhaled the scent of him. "It was a long time ago," he said softly. "Ashlee was one of mine, back in Chicago. She ran away from home for a while. I found her. She joined up for a while, did the kind of things we all did back then." Pete closed his eyes for a brief moment, remembering. Dirty rooms, dirty business. The image of Ashlee from that night became superimposed over an image of a skinny girl with dishwater-colored hair, sharp smile, and sad, sad eyes. Then, he opened his eyes, and saw his pristine office, Patrick's freckled skin. He nuzzled Patrick's neck. "The good Reverend has paid a lot of money to a lot of people to cover up the fact that his youngest has a criminal record. He didn't have to - I wiped Ash's record clean when she decided to go back home - but neither of us ever told him that. It did him some good to grovel to the secular authorities."

"She was more than one of your gang, Pete."

"Yeah. Yeah, she was." Pete stood up. He walked around to the console and pressed a button on the computer. The screen went blank, but Patrick didn't protest. He looked up at Pete with guarded eyes. Pete leaned against the console. "We needed each other for a while. Ash and I, we were messed up in the same way. We complemented each other."

"You guys looked like you could still complement each other pretty well."

This time, Pete did laugh. "Nah, she's totally into the religious thing now. Not in the same way as her dad and her sister are, but she's figured out that she can do some pretty good things with the machine her dad has set up. She's the one who convinced him to start stumping for charities other than the Simpson family vacation fund. She figured out it's pretty fun to work inside the system, not against it. I guess I figured that out, too, huh?"

"The gossip rags would certainly have a field day with you guys. Pete Wentz, billionaire mogul, with Ashlee Simpson, one of the heirs to the biggest evangelism circus in the country."

"Oh, fuck off." Pete's voice was sharp; Patrick sat up straight, as if he'd been slapped. "Seriously, fuck the hell right off. Is that what you're pouting about? Are you really that stupid?"

"I'm not pouting. I'm just ... thinking." Patrick scrubbed his face with his hands. "I don't belong there, you know."

"What?"

"There. The kind of party we were at tonight. With people who could buy and sell the whole city and still have enough left for a house on Olympus. Wearing a suit that costs more than I make as a cop in two years."

"I can buy and sell the whole city whenever I want, and I own Olympus," Pete pointed out. "And you belong with me."

Patrick waved a hand dismissively. "It's just ... I liked Ashlee. I did!" he repeated when he saw Pete's mouth twist. "She seems like good people. I didn't expect that, because I kinda think her dad is a pompous blowhard who's no more honest than the card sharks I used to bust before I got promoted to Homicide."

"Your instincts, as always, are impeccable."

Patrick snorted. He avoided Pete's gaze, however, as he leaned his elbows on his knees and rolled his neck. "Ashlee's a nice girl. Smart, funny, gorgeous. I watched you guys walking together, and I thought ... 'yeah, that's what Pete should have.' Someone that could give you both the substance and the shine."

Pete thought about that for a second. And then, he reached over and hauled Patrick out of the chair. Surprised, Patrick stumbled, pushing Pete back into the computer console. Pete shoved Patrick backwards. "Oh my god. Are you done acting like a moron?"

"Will you shut the fuck up and listen? I'm no good at this." Patrick shoved the chair aside, but stood just out of Pete's reach. His fists were balled up, so Pete figured he was approximately one and a half insults away from sporting a black eye in the morning.

Pete shrugged. He'd never been good at heeding warnings. He stepped forward and shoved Patrick's shoulder, hard. "I will not shut up and listen, because you sound stupid. Let me see if I've got this straight. You're trying to tell me that I should date Ashlee again because she looks better than you?"

"No, that's not ..."

"Yeah, yeah it is. So fucking stupid."

"It's not fucking about looks! Not entirely," Patrick amended. "I'm not comfortable in your world, okay? Before you, I pretty much lived in the bullpen at Cop Central. I spend my days with dead bodies and deadbeats. I'm more comfortable talking to street junkies than I am making small talk with the mayor. Who, by the way, might be asking the Commander for my badge tomorrow, if the wine didn't make him forget how I insulted his son."

"That was fucking awesome," Pete said, grinning. When Patrick looked up sharply, he spread his hands. "It was. His son's a little jackoff with no respect for women. Or anyone, really, but that thing with his date was particularly stupid. I would've said something if you hadn't taken care of it so effectively. Insulting his virility is one thing, but insinuating that he's too classless for street LCs was a whole other level of brilliance."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "You're not actually paying attention to what I'm saying here, are you?"

"Of course I'm not. What you're saying is stupid." Pete gave up and reached out to Patrick. He fisted a hand in Patrick's shirt and pulled him close. "Mine," he breathed. "You're mine, you jackass."

If someone asked - and people did, stupid people who had no sense of self-preservation - what it was about Patrick, of all people, that had drawn Pete to him, Pete wouldn't be able to verbalize it. It confused him, sometimes, this ridiculous need for a tiny, grumpy cop who seemed to hate everything Pete had been and was now. But, yet, he needed him, so much that his entire body ached with it. When Patrick finally gave in and pressed his mouth to Pete's, something inside Pete sang, like it always did. Pete still pushed, though, grabbed Patrick's waist and pushed until Patrick's hips dug into the computer console. He moaned against Pete's mouth. It was the most beautiful sound Pete had ever heard. "Mine," Pete repeated, thrusting his hips against Patrick's, reveling in the answering motion.

"Bed," Patrick muttered, his mouth muffled against Pete's. "I'm not going to end up with bruises on my ass again."

"Come on, it was totally fun to spread ..." Pete didn't get to finish his statement, because Patrick kissed him again, steering him towards the door that led back to the bedroom.

By the time they hit the bed, Pete had managed to lose both his shirt and his pants, and had unbuttoned Patrick's shirt. He pushed the shirt from Patrick's shoulders as Patrick straddled him. Patrick shrugged the shirt to the floor and pushed Pete down to the mattress. He looked down at Pete, hair mussed and glasses askew on his face. "Mine," Patrick said.

"Yes, christ, that's the whole fucking point," Pete grumbled. Patrick glared, but leaned over and grazed his teeth over Pete's neck. Pete shuddered. "Fuck, yes, yours. Always yours."

Pete talked while Patrick used his hands and mouth - babbled, really, sentimental nonsense he'd never say out of bed. Not that he didn't want to shout his love from every rooftop in New York, but this was the only place Patrick was willing to listen to it. Patrick didn't believe him yet, not really, but in this, Pete was patient. He'd hold on, he'd kiss and prod and argue, and he'd savor Patrick's smooth skin under his hands and mutter endearments into Patrick's hair until someday, maybe someday, Patrick would understand. Understand that this was everything, that Pete had been hit right between the eyes with Patrick's very existence, that breathing wouldn't be possible or desirable if Patrick wasn't there.

Patrick, for his part, didn't speak much. He didn't have to. The one word he usually did speak - Pete's name, when Pete reached down between them to take Patrick in his hand, or when their sweat-slick skin slid together just so - went straight down Pete's spine, causing him to shudder uncontrollably. Pete tried to hold on - he loved watching Patrick, loved the fact that he could make Patrick come apart at the seams - but when Patrick bent down and took Pete in his mouth, all of Pete's self-control vanished. It wasn't long until Pete's body felt like one giant nerve, sensation running up and down his skin like an electric current. He ceased to understand the words coming out of his mouth when he came. Maybe Patrick understood them. Maybe someday, they'd both understand.

Later - after Pete had returned the favor, after he'd watched Patrick mouth words that Pete already knew - Pete curled up on his side and placed his hand on Patrick's chest. He watched his hand rise and fall for several minutes. When he looked up to Patrick's face, his eyes were closed, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks in the low bedroom light. "You still wanna tell me you don't belong here?" Pete asked. He was surprised at how rough his voice sounded.

"It's not _here_ I worry about," Patrick said softly, without opening his eyes.

"There is no 'here' and 'there', there's just 'with me.'"

"Okay, Yoda, thanks for the wisdom."

"Fuck off." But, Pete grinned. "I'm not letting you watch my old movies any more."

Patrick still didn't open his eyes, but his lips curved upwards in a smile. "Pull the blankets up, let's get some sleep."

Pete didn't sleep for a long time. Too many scenes were imprinted on his eyelids, things that haunted his dreams when he let his guard down. But, curled up in bed, listening to Patrick's soft snores, he felt like the ghosts couldn't find him. "You chase them away," he murmured, pressing closer to Patrick's body.

Patrick didn't hear him, but the words hung in the air like a shield.


End file.
